


Sixteen Words

by kim47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't find the words.</p>
<p>For the kinkmeme prompt:  Sherlock comes back after however-long of being in hiding. He has really missed John, coming to realise just how much he loves him etc. John has been devastated, he never got a chance to tell Sherlock how he felt. When Sherlock bursts in to 221B, barely two words are uttered before he finds himself pushed up against the wall, explanations saved for later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixteen Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is just me moving stuff over from LJ.
> 
> Written ages ago, long before we even knew what series two would look like, so not entirely compliant with BBC!verse Reichenbach.

Sherlock stood in front of the door, staring at it silently. He'd never been sentimental, never melodramatic when there wasn't anyone around to witness it. But he had to pause, he had to stop and breathe and think, he had to be calm about this. Otherwise he felt he was going to fall apart, go flying off in a million different directions, never to be reassembled.

He allowed himself a quiet chuckle at the irony of this. He'd hunted Moriarty and his friends across four continents and twenty three countries, and nothing had ever scared him, nothing had ever stopped him, quite so forcefully as the door of 221B Baker Street. There were so many things he could say, needed to say, wanted to say. Explanations to offer, apologies to give. Confessions to make, even, although Sherlock couldn't be sure about this last one. How much did John need to know? How much would he want to know?

He hadn't allowed himself any contact with John at all. He'd explicitly instructed Mycroft to send him no news, no pictures, no hints. He couldn't deal with distractions. He couldn't be focused, detached, analytical, if he was worrying about how John was coping. How he was dealing with the death of his flatmate and closest friend. Sherlock had no doubts that he _was_ John's closest friend, just as John was his. He had long since given up pretending that he felt no affection for John, it was absurd to even try. After all they'd experienced, killing for, being ready to die for each other, it was impossible that they shouldn't be as close as... well, brothers, although that was not a simile Sherlock had ever found appropriate.

Sherlock steeled himself, and pushed open the door. Unlocked? Courtesy of Mycroft? He dismissed the thought. Unimportant. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, unable to push himself any further. This hesitancy, he knew, was completely unlike him. But he was about to see John, _John_ , whom he'd missed more than he had been prepared to, whom he had unconsciously looked over his shoulder for so many times in the past three years, who thought he was dead. He felt some hesitation was called for.

 

He'd dreamt of John often.

Sometime he yelled at Sherlock. _How could you do this? You bloody_ idiot _! How could you leave me behind? You're out there, fighting him on your own, you have no bloody clue what you're doing. You need me there, if only because sometimes you don't know when to stop. You can't do this without me_.

Sometimes he just stood there, as Sherlock told him his story, what he'd done, why he'd done it. _I had to do it._   _I did it to keep you safe, John! He'd used you so many times to get to me, and I couldn't allow it anymore. I needed to finish him, and for that he had to believe I was dead. I'm sorry. I knew you'd be okay without me. But if he got to you, if the next one was the time I couldn't figure out his puzzles in time... That would be it for me. I wouldn't be okay without you. I wouldn't be okay if he took you away from me_.

Sometimes John couldn't see him at all. Sherlock would burst in, desperate to tell John everything. He would start talking, shouting, gesturing, but John couldn't (or wouldn't) see or hear him. He'd be in John's face, yelling into his ears, seizing his shoulders, kissing him deliriously, but John would simply go about his business, paying him no regard at all.

The worst one, the one that left him panting and breathless and cold, was the one when he opened the door to an empty flat. Everything was gone. Their sofa, his skull, John’s laptop, all of it. There was no sign of John. There was no sign of anyone having lived there for months. He would search the flat in a frenzy, but the whole place was exactly the same as the living room. He’d start to panic, calling for John more and more frantically. Everntually, he’d find a piece of paper sitting on John's old bed, a cutout from the newspaper. An obituary. _John Watson - Dead in the service of the great Sherlock Holmes,_ it ran. Then there was the feeling of falling, of falling but never, never hitting the ground. He usually woke up gasping.

 

Sherlock abruptly pulled himself together. John was here, he could hear him moving around upstairs, limping by the sound of it. He was suddenly frantic to see him. He’d waited more than three years for this, and he was not going to wait another minute.

He took the stairs two at a time, his heart beating uncomfortably hard. He forced himself not to stop at the door, not to torture himself for another moment with fear or regret or stupid, baseless hope. In two seconds, he was inside the flat, and John Watson was staring at him with blank, uncomprehending eyes.

 

Sherlock didn’t, couldn’t, move. He stood, frozen and afraid, staring back at the man he has ached for for three long years. He searched John’s face, desperate for some sign, a slight twitch, an eye motion, that meant that everything was going to be okay. John’s face didn’t change; he was completely expressionless. Sherlock wanted to speak, more than anything he wanted the words to make this be okay. He’d never lacked for words before; he’d always known exactly what to say to get exactly what he wanted. Now, nothing. He wasn’t even sure he knew _what_ he wanted. He wanted John to hit him, to hurt him, to kiss him, to touch him, to tell him he’d missed him, n _ever leave me again, get out of here I never want to see you again._  Something. Anything.

John made a small twitching motion, as if he wanted to move forward, but the message had been lost somewhere between his brain and his legs. The movement jerked Sherlock out of his whirling thoughts, and he himself took a step forward. John’s expression was changing, he could see it now, all the different, conflicting emotions rushing rapidly across it. Disbelief. Wonder. Shock. Incomprehension. Anger. Hurt. Fear. Loss. Hope?

John also seemed to have regained something of his composure, and he moved towards Sherlock, his arm outstretched, as if afraid he would reach Sherlock and find him insubstantial, a ghost from one of his nightmares.

“Sherlock?” he said, asked, breathed, and oh, Sherlock could _feel_ his voice. The voice that had order him to eat, asked him to _please keep your weird body parts to the bottom two shelves of the fridge_ , had sometimes begged him to find a little more humanity, to care.

John was in front of him now, Sherlock could smell him - a mixture of tea and shampoo and Chinese takeaway that was so essentially John that Sherlock could hardly stand it.

“John, I – ” he began quietly.

It was perhaps a good thing that the rest of his words were lost, as Sherlock really had no idea how that sentence was going to end.

Instead, he felt John’s wonderfully steady, surgeon’s hands reach up to grasp his upper arms, his grip almost tight enough to be painful, if Sherlock had been able to think past the sensation of being touched by John. John was holding and pushing, pushing him backwards until he felt his back hit the wall next to the still open door to the flat. And John was reaching up, up, placing one of those almost unbearably _real_ hands at the back of his neck, his fingers brushing the soft hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and pulling him down, down until Sherlock’s forehead met John’s, their lips centimeters apart. John’s eyes were open, blue staring up at him, searching him, almost begging him to be real. He could feel John’s breath on his lips, the sensation pounding through him, burying him. More than he’d felt in three years, more than he’d felt in his entire life. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered, and Sherlock could feel the word on his own lips, a benediction from John’s to his.

And then John was kissing him, his mouth soft and warm and yielding. Sherlock brought his arms up to pull John’s body flush against his, needing to feel John as close as possible, eyes sliding closed, kissing him back fervently, almost reverently. John’s grip had tightened, as if afraid Sherlock would vanish at any moment, leaving him alone with his nightmares. It almost destroyed Sherlock to realize what he’d done to this man, to this kindest and best of men. All he could do was run his hands up and down John’s arms and back, warm and reassuring. He felt John shiver slightly against him, and push him harder into the wall.

John parted his lips ever so slightly, running his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip, and suddenly the most important thing in Sherlock’s world was to feel it again. He opened his lips in response, and darted his tongue out to meet John’s, coaxing it slowly into his mouth. The feeling of John’s tongue in his mouth,  _John’s tongue in my mouth_ , he thought deliriously, was overwhelming – warm, gentle exploring. He fought the urge to open his eyes to make sure this was real, not one of the dreams that had tortured him. Then John moved away slightly, and before Sherlock had time to register more than a flicker of sudden disappointment and loss, John tilted his head and moved back in. The new angle was glorious, he could feel John and him sliding together, locking into place, fitting together in this new way that so perfectly matched all the ways they’d fitted seamlessly into each other lives. Sherlock wanted, like he never had in his life. He wanted to consume John, make him completely and utterly his, mark him forever, stamp across his forehead _Property of Sherlock Holmes._

He also knew he had absolutely no right to do so.

He’d left. He’d walked away. Yes, it had been with good reason. Yes, he’d like to think he’d done the right thing. Yes, he believed do it over, given the chance. But he’d still left John here, alone, let him think Sherlock was dead, for God's sake. He could read in the urgency of John’s kisses, in his iron grip and racing heartbeat, how close he’d come to breaking John Watson.

Their kisses deepened, moving well past tender and exploring to frantic and needy. John’s hands were everywhere suddenly, combing through Sherlock’s hair, stroking across his cheeks, trailing down his neck. His own were no less busy, pushing themselves under John’s jumper, desperate for the warmth of his skin.

At Sherlock’s touch however, John jerked away suddenly, breaking the kiss. He moved back a step, although he didn’t let go of Sherlock, his hands sliding down Sherlock’s arms to grasp his hands. He was staring up at Sherlock, his lips delightfully red and wet, and all Sherlock wanted to do was draw John’s bottom lip between his own and suck on it. John’s eyes were wide and dark, their expression heartbreaking.

“How can you be here?”

There were so many answers to that question, and since answering any of them required Sherlock to do something with his mouth other than kiss John, he thought f _uck it_ , and spun John around so that he was now the one pressed up against the wall, and crashed their mouths back together.

John hesitated for only a second before winding his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and drawing kiss after bruising kiss from him. John’s mouth was hot, demanding and possessive. Sherlock loved it. _Property of John Watson_ , his kisses seemed to say, and Sherlock almost laughed at the unutterable rightness of it. His hand dropped to John’s waist, then his thigh, stroking lightly but with intent. John responded by winding his leg around Sherlock’s, pushing his hips into him.

Sherlock gasped at the sudden contact, before pushing back. _Not enough,_  he thought wildly, _still not enough_. John seemed to agree, and without Sherlock quite knowing how, he found himself with both John’s legs wrapped tightly around his waist, John’s tongue lightly stroking his, John’s skin warm under his fingers. And it was better than he could have imagined, better than breathing, better than cocaine, better than dismembered limbs at crime scenes, better than everything. _John_  was everything, and Sherlock wondered if someone could collapse from feeling too much.

 

They broke apart again, and stood breathing heavily into each other’s mouths, lips all but touching. Sherlock’s head was everywhere, in a thousand pieces, John’s name written on every single one. He lowered John gently to the floor, afraid his shoulder must be aching, and wrapped his arms around him, face buried in John’s neck, breathing him in. John’s arms were around him, clutching him fiercely. Now Sherlock wanted to say something, wanted John to know how he felt, how he’d missed him, how he’d done it for him. He struggled desperately for the words, and still they wouldn’t come.

He focused instead on the sensation of John’s hands rubbing small circles on his arms. John’s hair tickling his neck. John’s breathing, steadier now, but still a bit ragged. He drew back, keeping his body pressed up to John’s, to look at his face. To study it properly, to trace the differences three years had made. John looked tired, older. He had dark circles around his eyes ( _hasn't slept more than three hours a night for at least two months, most likely longer_ ), and his skin was paler than Sherlock had ever seen it, no trace of the Afghan sun left on it. Sherlock drank it in silently, memorizing every line, dip and curve of this new John, a sadder, wiser version of the old John.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

He needed to say something.

He owed it to John.

He cleared his throat.

“I missed you,” he said. His voice came out hoarse and low, and Sherlock winced at the way it fractured the near-silence that had permeated the flat since the moment he walked in.

He hated himself.

Wrong.

Not enough.

Not enough to cover all the wrong he’d done John, all the nights he’d spent dreaming about his voice, his laugh, his lips. All the times he’d wished he’d found the words to say it before he left, before he’d done this to both of them. _I love you and if you make me leave I won’t blame you but I’ll never be okay again because this is it for me I’ve never felt like this and I don’t think I will again I don’t want to again I can’t again because you are the only person who’s ever really understood who’s seen me and not cared that this is how I am who’s actually liked me because of it and I’m sorry I did this I’ll never leave again I couldn’t if I tried because now that you’ve kissed me all that I can think about is how much I want to take off all your clothes and touch you everywhere_ everywhere _and grab on to you and keep you close to me and I’ll stop putting eyeballs in the microwave and I’ll do anything if you just kiss me again and say I can stay and kiss me and don’t stop -_

John looked back at him, and suddenly his face broke into a smile, the first Sherlock had seen in three years, four months and nineteen days.

“I love you, too,” he said.

Sherlock wordlessly took John’s hand and led him away from the living room, through the kitchen and into his bedroom. John understood. He always did.


End file.
